


Touch

by arthurmorgan-s-heart (Silverblind)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:12:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblind/pseuds/arthurmorgan-s-heart
Summary: Headcanons for a touch-starved Arthur





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a request fill from my tumblr blog. Uploaded here for convenience - find me on tumblr - arthurmorgan-s-heart
> 
> Original request text: "Don't imagine a touch-starved Arthur, freezing when his girl - no, not yet, she'S not his girl, he doesn't deserve - brushes a hand on his shoulder as she patches him up. Don't imagine him melting into her hands, wanting it to never end. Don't imagine her confessing to him as he's overwhelmed by the soft hands that hold his"

  * The gang didn’t plan on taking you in when they found you, stranded near Fort Mercer after your horse was stolen, saying they would take you to the next town, and no further - which was a couple days away
  * That first night, you noticed they had wounded amongst them
  * “I ain’t got money to thank you… but I was a doctor’s assistant for years. I can help.”
  * You cleaned and bandaged their wounds with an expert hand that night - and the ones that followed -, and you felt many people watching you, though a gruff, sullen man seemed to have his eyes upon you more than the others
  * They got you to the next town, as promised, but then asked if you’d consider travelling with them
  * You had wanted to refuse, at first, but you realised that you had no plan, and no money - the town you had lived in all your life had been burned down by bandits, and you had escaped with nothing but the clothes on your back and a horse (and you didn’t even have the horse anymore)
  * So you accepted, and grew close to the mismatched band of outlaws that called themselves “family”
  * Now, months later, your blood-soaked hands are pressing against Davey’s chest, attempting to staunch the flow of blood oozing from the gunshot wounds in his chest. Your fingers are frozen and you can barely hear yourself think over the howling of the wind outside the wagon
  * There’s nothing you can do for him - you know that already. But you have to try, if only for appearance’s sake
  * You send Reverend Swanson to tell Dutch that Davey doesn’t have much time, and even though you’re sitting in the very wagon Dutch is driving, you only hear the faintest echo of the men’s voices over the storm
  * “Dutch says Arthur found a place,” Swanson says when he climbs back in the wagon. “We’ll stop soon.”
  * You don’t answer. It doesn’t change anything. You feel Davey’s breath rattling in his chest under your fingers - not for long. Soon - too soon - you can barely feel his chest lifting and falling, and then - nothing
  * They bury him behind the church after you reach Colter - no small task given the storm and the frozen ground
  * You watch them dig from afar. You know there was nothing you could have done, but you still feel tears running down your cheeks
  * “You alright?”
  * The voice startle you. It’s Arthur. You hadn’t heard him approach over the fierce wind
  * He stands next to you, shielding you from the wind slightly with his bulk. The lantern in his hand sends fantastical shadows dancing on the snow
  * “I - just wish I could have done more, is all,” you answer, wiping at your cheeks. You look up at him - sullen as ever, but there is a softness to his eyes now. You remember how intimidating he looked when you first met
  * “Nothin’ you could do,” he says. “We all knew it was just a matter of time.” He is silent for a moment, watching the others work, before looking at you again. “You should get inside. Get warm.”
  * You nod, and take one last look at the shadows working behind the church before turning away. You raise a hand and touch Arthur’s shoulder. He tenses under your touch, and hopes you don’t notice
  * “Thanks, Arthur. Good night.”
  * “G'night,” he answers, watching you leave. The warmth of your touch lingers for hours on his shoulder, and something in him longs for more




	2. Chapter 2

  * Horseshoe Overlook is a nice change from the mountains - and the weather more in line with how it should be
  * The Heartlands are gorgeous - you wish you had more time to ride out and explore, but the gang keeps you busy
  * There is always work to be done - from Jack scraping his knee to Uncle scalding his hand with coffee
  * And sometimes - rarely, thank God - , something more serious
  * The morning is crisp and cold when Arthur rides back into camp after a few days away. He pulls on the reins, his horse teetering to a stop before he grits his teeth and stifles a groan of pain as he dismounts
  * “Ah, Mr. Morgan. Glad to see you back.” Mrs. Grimshaw barely spares him a look. He grabs her arm as she walks by, and she turns to him, her brows immediately knitting together in concern at his pained expression
  * “Is - Is Y/N around?” he grinds out, pressing a hand to his side. He can feel blood soaking through the makeshift bandage he had made himself
  * Susan immediately springs into action - “Mr. Williamson, Mr. Escuella, help Mr. Morgan to his tent. Miss Gaskill, fetch me Y/N. Quick now!”
  * You’re reading by the cliff when Mary Beth comes running. “Come with me. It’s Arthur.” You feel your heartbeat quicken at the mention of his name - even more than it usually would when hearing that someone’s been injured. You shake the thoughts from your mind. No time for that now
  * They’re all gathered around Arthur’s tent, and you almost have to elbow your way to him. “Leave him,” you tell them - you have to tell them  _every time_. They never learn. “I need some goddamn peace and quiet to work.”
  * They disperse quickly - you see that, at least, someone had thought to bring your kit and tools
  * He is breathing hard when you get to his bedside - you can tell at a look that, at least, his life doesn’t seem to be in danger. His teeth are gritted in pain and the hand he’s still pressing to his side is bloody
  * “It’ll be alright, Arhur,” you whisper as you kneel next to him. He looks at you from the corner of his eye as you take his hand and pry it away from his wound - at least the bleeding seems to have stopped - for now
  * You push his shirt up until you can see the wound - he tenses at that, hyperaware of your touch. Your hands feel molten against his hot skin as they probe around the injury
  * “What happened?” “O’Driscolls didn’t like the look of me - decided I’d look better with a knife in my gut. Can’t say I agree with that.”
  * Despite the situation, that draws a small smile from you, and a dry chuckle from him
  * He uses the fact that your eyes are focused away from his face to stare - openly - at the way your eyebrows knit together, the way you’re chewing on your lower lip - little things he wants to commit to memory
  * When your examination is complete, you breathe a small sigh of relief. “Well, at least, they didn’t do any real damage. A clean stab.” “Ah, well, I’ll be sure to compliment that O’Driscoll on his stabbing skills next time I see him.” That draws a laugh from you - and you feel questioning eyes upon you. You shoot Arthur a reproachful look
  * You see Abigail hovering nearby and call her over - “He’ll be alright. I need a bottle of whiskey, though, if you would?”
  * Arthur groans at your words as Abigail leaves. “Never did like that part.” You smile and prepare the rest of what you need - a needle and thread to suture the wound, and bandages. “Few do.”
  * You thank Abigail as she hands you a full bottle of whiskey - “Need anythin’ else?” “No, thank you.”
  * You uncork the bottle and look to Arthur - he meets your eye and nods
  * You press a hand to his stomach to keep him still. The muscles are wound tight beneath your hand. He’s not sure whether it’s because of the impending pain, or because of your proximity
  * The whiskey feels like liquid fire on his side - he muffles his pained sounds as best he can (no need for Marston to hear this, now) and squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenching into fists
  * When you’re done, the hand you had pressed to his stomach unconsciously moves to his waist, your thumb absent-mindedly brushing a soothing pattern just above the waistband of his pants as you dab the alcohol away with a clean cloth - “You’re doing well. We’re almost done, Arthur,” you whisper
  *  Through the haze of lingering pain, he allows himself to relax under your touch, if only a little, though his heart is beating so loud in his chest that he fears you might hear it 
  * You work quickly after that - you suture the wound shut without much protest from him. After the burn of the whiskey, the prick and pull of the needle and thread must seem rather mild. His eyes are still closed - he almost seems asleep
  * His eyes flutter open when you put away your needle and touch his shoulder, feather-light 
  * “Stand up. Take off your shirt,” had the circumstances been any different, saying those words to him would undoubtedly have made you blush. But you try and stay focused focus on the task at hand
  * He stands, but hesitates for a long moment before obeying your second command. You try hard not to stare - so does  _he_ - as you start bandaging his wound
  * You work fast and efficiently, but you allow your hands to linger a few moments more than necessary after you pin the bandage in place. You desperately want to look at the rest of him, see his scars and learn every inch of his skin by touch - but you stand and turn away, putting your tools back into your small medical box. If only you knew how badly  _he_ wants it too
  * You hear the rustle of cloth behind you and a hiss of discomfort as he puts on another shirt
  * “You’ll have to rest a few days,” you tell him, sternly. People in this gang have a habit of ignoring your advice, but you still tell them every time
  * “Sure,” he says half-heartedly.
  * “I mean it.” Then, without thinking. “Please. For me.”
  *  He pauses, then looks at you. “Alright. For you.” You heart skips a beat
  * You smile, and he answers with one of his own - that alone is almost enough to bring a blush to your cheeks. “Thank you,” he says quietly
  * “You’re welcome.” You reach out and brush your fingertips over the back of his hand - his fingers flex reflexively, eager to touch, but he stops himself - as if you’d want someone like  _him_ to touch you
  * He watches you leave, and curses himself for daring to dream of touching you




	3. Chapter 3

  * The O’Dricolls’ attack on Shady Belle is swift, brutal and merciless
  * You’ve seen plenty of blood and gore in your time, and yet, somehow, the sight of Kieran’s mutilated body shakes you to your core
  * You feel yourself freeze as bullets start to fly around you. You will yourself to move, but your body seems to have turned to stone
  * “What are you doing?” Arthur’s voice seems far away, though you can feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder as he pushes -  _throws_  - you toward the mansion. “Get inside!  _NOW!”_
  * Tears streak down your face as you feel another pair of hands - smaller, softer - usher you inside. There are screams and shouts, but you feel as if you’re somewhere else, as if you are but a presence inhabiting a stranger’s body
  * Someone - Tilly? - holds you close as you take shelter in one of the upstairs bedrooms, whispering comforting words and shushing you - after what seems like an eternity, you realise that you’re sobbing uncontrollably. You do your best to quiet yourself
  * You’re not sure how long it goes on exactly - it could have been minutes, or hours - but eventually the sound of gunfire slowly dies off, and Dutch soon barges into the room to tell you it’s over
  * They don’t allow you to go back outside until after the sun has set - you can still smell blood and gunpowder in the air when you go sit on a bench on the back porch, staring out into the darkening swamp
  * You’re still unsettled, so much so that you don’t hear Arthur approach from inside the house until he’s standing in the doorway
  * He pauses at the sight of you sitting there, hesitates - he doesn’t want to disturb you, but you look small, and lost, and sad. It breaks his heart
  * So he takes a deep breath, gathers his courage, and steps closer
  * “You alright?” He speaks as softly as he can, but his voice still startles you
  * “Yeah,” you answer reflexively, but you feel tears well in your eyes as soon as you look at him - there’s a fresh bloodstain on his sleeve, and though you know it isn’t his, you can’t help but be reminded of when  _he_  had been abducted by the O’Driscolls - and how much worse it could have ended for him. A vision of him in a similar state to Kieran’s flashes behind your eyes, and you feel bile rise in your throat
  * You try to hold back your tears, but they slide down your face anyway, hot and bitter and uncontrollable
  * You turn away from him - you expect him to leave, but, to your surprise, you hear him step closer, feel his hand hovering inches from your shoulder, not daring to touch
  * He doesn’t know how to comfort you, though Lord knows he wishes he did, and he knows you might want him gone - but he can’t bring himself to leave you, not without an explicit dismissal
  * He feels his breath hitch in his throat when you turn back around to face him, looking up to meet his gaze as you reach for his hand, clasping it tight before tugging him down to sit next to you on the bench
  * It occurs to you dimly that it’s not your place to be so forward, and he would probably rather be somewhere else, but his presence seems to still your racing mind, and you need some peace - just for a minute, a moment
  * You realise a few moments later that you’re still gripping his hand, but he makes no move to free himself - it seems to you that you can even feel him brush his thumb over the back of your hand in a soothing motion
  * “I’m sorry, I - ” “It’s okay. You need anythin’?” “Just you is enough.”
  * The words make his heart skip a beat, and he doesn’t dare move when he feels you lay your head on his shoulder, almost going so far as to hold his breath, afraid that the slightest movement would scare you away
  * “Can you stay a while?” you ask quietly, allowing your eyes to slip shut - your mind is mercifully still, and you feel your exhaustion slowly taking you over
  * He hesitates before answering - it feels selfish to say yes, even though - or perhaps because - he wants to more than anything
  * But seeing you like this, seemingly calmer and more peaceful than you’d been in hours, he can’t bring himself to answer otherwise. “‘Course. As long as you need.”
  * You smile, opening your eyes just long enough to angle your head up and press a chaste kiss to his stubbled cheek before settling against him again. He feels as if his heart might leap out of his chest. “Thank you.”
  * He doesn’t seem to be able to manage a single word, so he simply hums and squeezes your hand, allowing himself to let go of his fears and simply sit with you in silence




End file.
